


Magic, or Something Like Magic

by speccygeekgrrl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1867626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's got nowhere to go except to the one person who owes him the least loyalty of all, and that's not even in his top five worst thoughts of the past hour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic, or Something Like Magic

**Author's Note:**

> I know eight million people have written the aftermath of what Frederick found in his house, but I felt compelled to write it myself. You know when you get one line stuck in your head and it won't go away until you've written it into something? That's what happened here.

He's been lonely for so long that it doesn't even register as a problem any more. It's his default state of being, pretty much all he's ever known, and the parts of him that still quietly long for something more get stomped under his fragile pride and his ruthless self-important bluster. People don't like him. He doesn't know how to make himself likeable even if he wanted to. He knows jealousy, knows envy, knows them more intimately than he's ever known another person, knows them like he knows himself because they are him, they're what he does, they're his constant companions in a life of insecurity and never being good enough. He's not likeable, and he doesn't know how to like other people. The people he likes, he envies, and his jealousy bleeds through even when he tries to show admiration, until the people he wants to trust him think he's nothing more than a weasel, until the people he wants to like him look at him with barely veiled contempt.

He doesn't even like himself. He's all too aware of his shortcomings, constantly in the know of every mistake he's ever made and every mistake as he makes them.

It might have been kinder if Gideon had killed him. He didn't often regret surviving, but now, soaked in blood and hyperventilating, mind running in the hamster wheel of betrayal and nausea that Hannibal Lecter has set him into, he wonders if he might not have been better off dying outright rather than living long enough to be framed for the very crimes Gideon had maimed him for misattributing to Gideon in the first place.

He’s got no one, not really. He doesn't know where else to go except to the one person who owes him the least loyalty of anyone-- the one person he knows will understand, having been framed for these crimes himself, despite the fact that his contempt wasn't even veiled toward the end of his time at the hospital. He has nowhere to turn except to Will Graham, and that's not even in the top five worst thoughts he's had in the past hour. He doesn't know what else to do except run, run full tilt toward someone who might possibly show him a shred of compassion, because if anyone can empathize with him, it's the man cursed with pure empathy.

He can hear the dogs barking before he even turns his car off, the volume rising sharply as he exits his vehicle. He wishes, futilely, for his cane, as he staggers toward the little house set apart from everything, wishes he had something solid to cling to as Will comes out of his house and eyes him. He scrapes together what few shards of dignity he has left and asks in a voice much calmer than he should be capable of to use Will's shower.

Getting the stink of blood out of his nose helps him find his composure, slightly. He stares down at the pink water swirling around the drain, trying not to think about it as he works the blood out of his hair, as he washes off the stains of crimes he was never capable of committing, but could apparently be framed for.

Anyone with any sense has to know he can't be the Chesapeake Ripper. He can't even kill spiders. He can't even eat fake bacon, let alone human flesh. But the corpses in his house will tell all the lies necessary to send the hounds coursing after him, the savage dogs that will gladly tear him to pieces in lieu of the man who they should be hunting, the man who has so deftly mislead everyone except the two men in this house, the two men in this house who know the truth all the better because of the lies that have been turned against them.

He comes out of the shower when there's no trace of blood left on him, but he can still smell that copper reek clinging to him like cheap cologne, the thick taint of it heavy on his mind even if his body is free of it. He feels small, diminished, terrified, vulnerable, and the only scrap of comfort he's offered is the cold wet nose of a mid-sized mutt pressing into his hand as he talks to Will Graham about how he has no option left but to run, run as far and as fast as he can and go to ground as completely as he can when he's put enough distance between himself and the FBI (himself and Hannibal Lecter) to feel like he can take a deep breath again without inhaling the stink of blood.

The thoughts all jostle in his head for primacy. He shoves down the memories (Gideon flatlining in his wine cellar, Hannibal’s hand over his mouth, coming to consciousness soaked in blood, the torn-open bodies of those FBI agents) but even with those suppressed there are fears rising to the surface to keep him off balance. Where will he go? What will he do? His assets are surely frozen. His house is a total loss, he’ll never step foot past those doors again even should his name be cleared. All he has is what’s on him, the clothes in his bags, the money in his wallet. Can he sell his car before he boards a plane? How will he board a plane if the FBI has put his name out? How in the world does a person go about assuming a false identity? Oh, god, he doesn’t even have his _name_ any more, he’s got to give that up too...

The only thing that clears the flood of frantic thoughts is his even more frantic heartbeat thudding in his chest, the sound of his own labored breathing, and he looks down at his trembling hands and he knows clinically what’s happening to him and he knows clinically how to handle it but in practice there’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop the panic overwhelming him.

It's magic, or something like magic, because science can't explain the calm that comes over him from the soft quelling sounds Will is making, the sounds he could barely hear through his own hysterical breathing and panicked, uncontrollable noises until Will curls a hand at the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together and says "shh, shh," and Frederick breathes out on a whimper and breathes in silently and listens, listens to the white noise Will is making so close to him that he can feel the sound against his own parted lips.

He thinks that this must be the sound Will makes to quiet his dogs, maybe to lure the strays close enough to catch, and here he is under Will's hands going docile, being soothed despite the panic still flowing through his veins, though it's ebbing, slowly ebbing and leaving a tremulous calm in its wake. He can't remember the last time he was this close to another person (except for Hannibal's arms around him, the chloroformed rag held to his nose) and there are goosebumps rising on his arms, a shiver working its way down his spine, the uncomfortable and untenable balance of his body wanting to go closer and his mind poised to spring away.

"Keep breathing," Will says, but it's his fingertips moving through Frederick's hair that seals the deal, his heart rate easing from flat-out panic to nervous excitement and staying at that fluttery pace while Will eases away enough to look Frederick in the eyes. "There. There you go. All right?"

"Of course I'm not all right," Frederick says, but without the sharpness he'd usually have. "But at least I'm not having a panic attack any more. Thank you."

"Least I can do," Will says, and lets his hand drop, and it must be magic or some kind of witchcraft because when Will stops touching him the panic wells again, and Frederick doesn't even think about it twice before he steps in and wraps his arms around Will and lowers his head to Will's shoulder. "Uh..."

"Please don't say anything," Frederick says, and, thankfully, Will doesn't. Will puts his arms around Frederick in return, and pats his back a little awkwardly, and for a long moment Frederick's mind settles into peace. It should rankle him that Will Graham of all people has this effect on him, but then, he's always known that Will has a strange effect on him, he has since the first day they met, although then it was intense curiosity that Frederick felt, and now... now it's still intense, and curiosity is still there, but there's something much more happening. Something that Frederick has very little experience with. Something he has no idea how to handle except to try to stay close, to keep Will near enough to quiet his frantic mind, to breathe in the scent of cheap aftershave and engine grease and dog fur and musk that means what's under his nose is, in fact, only Will, because it couldn't be anyone else (because he doesn't smell like expensive aftershave and kitchen herbs and chloroform).


End file.
